


Downward Spiral

by BakerKeen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Sally Donovan, Case Fic, Date Rape, Dirty Talk, Drinking to Cope, Drunken blow job, F/M, Friendship, It never ends well, John is a Very Good Doctor, Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, PTSD? Definitely PTSDish, Past Drug Use, Past Sexual Assault, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Sherlock is a good friend, Stranger Sex, Tequila
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-18 10:05:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4702028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerKeen/pseuds/BakerKeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly was still standing near the doorway, looking uncertain and unfocused. John gestured toward the living room, offering her tea. Ducking her head, Molly walked in and both men stiffened as they saw her tentative gait, the way she held her arms hugged to her chest, the slight tension in her face when she sat. They both noticed the awkward way she held her opposite arm as she reached for her tea; Sherlock noticed that she was using her non-dominant hand. He also noticed her ponytail was loose, and that her nail polish was chipped. He noticed that she was wearing heels and more makeup than usual and anxiety pooled in his belly. He ran through the data again, willing a different conclusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE HEED THE TAGS AND WARNINGS. I hope that I handle this issue with the respect it deserves, but there are frank and graphic descriptions of rape in this fic.
> 
> Additional note (10/26/15):  
> I had a great suggestion from Kittyhawk57 to explain that this fic purposely deviates a bit from the show's characterization of Sherlock and Molly's relationship. In my story, I have made them much closer friends (almost a mix between show-John and Mrs. Hudson), given them a longer history together, and there are references to a very brief, long-past sexual relationship between them. You can read more about my reasoning in the comments as replies to NotIdiotProof and Kittyhawk57's comments. Actually, just do yourself a favor and read over all the comments on this work, because they are all incredibly thoughtful and insighful. Topics range from my aforementioned writing choices to Motfiss's treatment of Sally to the experiences of rape victims. I'm thrilled that you guys are engaging in my work in this way! --BK

When John opened the door, his first, fleeting thought was that Molly looked high. He ushered her in and she walked up the stairs to the flat wordlessly. She hugged her sweater around herself, hovering near the door. She jumped a bit as John touched her shoulder to nudge past her, and John smiled an apology, breathing in her scent -- stale alcohol and aftershave. He squeezed past Sherlock, who was peering into the microscope at the kitchen counter, to turn on the kettle, then kissed near his ear. "Molly's here," he murmured quietly. "Need your help deducing her." Sherlock smiled faintly, scratching down one last observation before turning away to give him a swift kiss on the lips.

Molly was still standing near the doorway, looking uncertain and unfocused. John gestured toward the living room, offering her tea. Molly walked in and both men stiffened as they saw her tentative gait, the way she held her arms hugged to her chest, the slight tension in her face when she sat. They both noticed the awkward way she held her opposite arm as she reached for her tea; Sherlock noticed that she was using her non-dominant hand. He also noticed her ponytail was loose, and that her nail polish was chipped. He noticed that she was wearing heels and more makeup than usual and anxiety pooled in his belly. He ran through the data again, willing a different conclusion. 

John noticed that she had taken the tea but wasn't drinking it; that she was looking around the flat as though disoriented; that she was perched on the edge of the sofa, looking ready to bolt; that her respiration rate was slightly elevated. He took a step closer to her and her eyes snapped to him. Pupils dilated, respiration increased. He retreated a step, then two. He sat down on the floor, across the coffee table and down at the far corner, giving her a clear escape. 

Molly swallowed, seeming to reel in her panic. "Can I stay here tonight? I can't go home." 

John swiftly agreed, and Sherlock approached slowly, telegraphing each step. Her eyes didn't leave him but she stayed still and seemed calmer than she had when John had approached. Sherlock knelt in front of her, holding his hands palm-up near hers and waiting patiently. After a few long moments, she set down her tea and gave him her hands. He stroked them comfortingly, fondly, and met her eyes. He was quiet for a full minute, seeming to weigh what to say. Finally, he squeezed her hands gently to gain her attention. "Who was he?" His voice was sharper than he'd intended. 

Molly smiled sadly. Of course all she'd had to do was walk in the bloody room and Sherlock would know what'd happened. In truth, that was partly why she'd come. "No one special. Just someone I met at the pub last week."

John scooted closer. "And it happened in your flat? Tonight?" Molly looked at him with surprise. She had expected Sherlock to make the connection immediately, not John. He smiled a bit, shrugged a shoulder. "It's a huge problem in the Army. I treated far too many women and a few men in Afghanistan." She nodded, eyes staring off. "Molly?" She refocused on John's face. "This just happened?" 

Molly nodded. "Yes. In my flat." 

"Can I examine you? I want to check your vitals and take a look at that arm." 

"It's nothing," she said swiftly, but Sherlock squeezed her hand and said _please_ with such emotion that she nodded her head. 

She shrugged out of her cardigan and John gently lifted her arm, observing the purpling bruise and slight swelling on her forearm. He could see where her attacker's fingertips had dug in. He lifted and twisted it, watching Molly's face closely for discomfort as he checked her range of motion. He palpated her arm as he bent it at the elbow. "Pretty decent sprain. You struggled." 

"Good girl," Sherlock murmured, affection plain in his voice. 

"Not enough," she whispered. 

John watched his watch as he took her pulse. "You were clear enough about what you wanted that he felt the need to hurt you. This isn't yur fault." He settled back on the coffee table and they discussed her physical health. John wanted her to go to the hospital to have bloodwork drawn, evidence collected, and given medication to reduce her risk of pregnancy and STDs. Sherlock protested that John could do all of that from the flat. John argued that he didn't have a rape kit and that Molly would probably prefer a female practitioner for that. Sherlock stormed over to his half of the kitchen table and produced a half-dozen slides, sealed swabs, and sterile equipment, and pointed out that they were gay, for god's sake, so why should Molly care. 

Molly broke in and said that she preferred John do it to going to her own workplace to report a rape. John sat beside her. "I can do that, if we go to the surgery. But if I'm providing actual medical services to you, not just helping a friend out, I need to call the police. You don't have to talk to them, but I have to call. I _have to_ ," he half-shouted at Sherlock, who was starting to protest. "The evidence would be called into question if I don't follow the proper procedures. This is not negotiable." 

Both of them looked to Molly, who squeezed her eyes shut and twisted the bottom of her sweater. She opened them and nodded at Sherlock, who nodded back. "I'll call Sally." He ignored the twin shocked expressions directed at him. 

45 minutes later, Molly was gowned and had her feet in the stirrups, trembling slightly and holding Sherlock's hand as John dictated notes into his phone's voice memos app. Molly let his voice fade into the background. Swabs, scrapes, the pressure of a speculum. Stand there, hold the sheet here, click click. Squeeze this, tight pressure, this will sting, swallow these. 

Finally, they were in John's office and Sally was there, and Molly just wanted to sleep. Was scared to sleep. Wanted to curl up next to Sherlock -- safe Sherlock, who loved her, who would never hurt her -- but the thought of him being so close made her panicky. Sally was asking her a question, and she had no idea what it was. She looked at Sherlock. His rumbling baritone was soothing. "Do you want to make a report?"

Nothing felt real. Molly felt like she was outside her body. "I don't know if I can right now. Everything feels very far away, like I'm at the bottom of a well." 

John nodded. "That's normal. It'll fade in a few hours, couple of days at the outside. Reporting is up to you, but you should try to talk about it tonight to someone. Describing what happened in detail right afterward lowers your risk of PTSD." 

Sally leaned in urgently. "I know this is hard, but you will regret it forever if you don't report it. Someday you'll see him out in the world, with no remorse, no accountability, and you will hate yourself for not doing this now. Don't give him that. He's taken enough already." John turned to Sally as though expecting her to say more, but Sally's face didn't change from calm and determined. "Getting started is the hardest part," she insisted. 

A few seconds later, Molly frowned in concentration. "It's so hard to think. I guess I'll report it. That way I don't have to rehash it a second time." 

Sally set up her audio recorder, had everyone state their names, and then nodded at Molly, who was looking panicky. Sherlock squeezed her hand and murmured, "Go ahead, Molly. We can stop whenever you want." 

Molly sipped at the water John had gotten her. "We went to dinner around 8. He seemed really nice, really charming and interested." 

Sally interrupted. "How much did you have to drink?" 

John frowned. "That's irrelevant. Drinking with someone is not consent." 

Sally kept her eyes on Molly, who sighed. "We shared a bottle of wine. I had about 3 glasses, so I guess he would've had 2? Anyway, it was a lovely evening, and he walked me home. I meant to leave him at the outside door of the building, but he insisted on walking me to the door of my flat. I probably should have realized ..." Sherlock squeezed her hand reassuringly and Sally nodded at her to continue. "We kissed goodnight in front of my door. Snogged a bit, really. He asked to come in and I said no, and something cheeky about it being our first date. I told him I'd text him tomorrow -- well, today, now -- and said goodbye. I didn't invite him in." She said this last part pleadingly; Sherlock nodded soberly and kissed her knuckles. 

She looked back at Sally. "Then I opened the door and he pushed me through it, closed the door behind me and pressed me up against it. He started kissing me again, and I pulled away, told him he had to leave. He yanked me back by the arm and pushed me back against the wall. I tried to get my arm free but he was too strong. I told him again, to please leave, that I'd text him tomorrow. And he told me that we'd had such a good time and were attracted to each other. People fuck on the first date all the time, he said. Be an adult about it, don't be a tease." 

John felt the anxiety tightening his stomach and saw that Sherlock was clenching his jaw. They looked at each other and had the same thought. _If the police don't take care of this, we will._

"And then I stopped fighting. I told him to please leave, and he ignored me. I don't know why I didn't keep fighting; it was like my body was stuck. I should've fought more." Molly was near tears. 

John leaned forward, speaking firmly. "That's very common. You've heard of the fight-or-flight response? It's actually fight, flight, or freeze. Your nervous system decided you were threatened and your best chance of survival was to play dead, essentially. It's completely involuntary, and also completely besides the fucking point. It's not your job to fight off someone who wants to have sex with you; it's their responsibility to make sure you want it, too. This is _not_ your fault." 

Sherlock cut in. "He had the advantage over you on height, weight, and sobriety. He made sure you were tipsy enough to be unable to fight him off. Look how he injured you when you merely tried to pull away and promised to contact him the following day. He was making a power play, letting you know that he was in control and that he could easily overpower you. If you'd continued to fight, your injuries would have been much worse, and you still would have been raped. Your nervous system made the right call." 

Sally prompted her to continue. Molly looked detached again, like she was retelling a story about someone else. "Then he kissed me some more, on the neck. He squeezed my bum pushed against me, rubbed his erection against me. I don't remember how we got to the living room, but he pulled me to the couch and climbed on top of me. I was wearing a skirt, and he rucked it up, pulled my knickers aside and pushed a finger inside of me, said I was tight and he couldn't wait to fuck me." 

Sally nodded, her face coolly dispassionate but Sherlock could see her distress in the set of her jaw and the way she kept scratching at her cuticles. She asked a few questions, determining the timeline and reviewing details, seeming to want to give Molly a respite before talking about the worst of it. Finally, she nodded her head encouragingly at Molly. "You're doing great, Dr. Hooper. Whenever you're ready, go ahead and tell me about what happened next." 

Molly was blushing faintly now. "He pushed inside me and it hurt, I was crying and he said I could take it, take his big dick." She was fully blushing now. "That's what he said. I don't know how big it was, I never looked at it. It felt big, though." John handed her a glass of water and Molly took a long swallow. "That went on for awhile, I don't know how long. It hurt a lot at first but I felt numb after awhile. He was really heavy, and after he ejaculated he kind of collapsed on top of me. I couldn't breathe, and I was scared to push him off, but eventually he pulled out and stood up. He wiped himself on my skirt and told me he had fun and to text him if I ever wanted to do it again. And then he was gone. I laid there for a minute or two, then changed into some jeans and took a taxi to John and Sherlock's. I couldn't stay there."

Sally asked a few follow-up questions and then decided it was enough for the night. On the way out, she promised to call and touch base soon but to call anytime. She scratched her cell phone number on the back of her card, along with a few words. Molly looked at them in the taxi. _You are stronger than you feel._


	2. Chapter 2

After they had all showered and Molly had gone to bed in John's old room, John and Sherlock laid together in bed, both unable to sleep.

"Sherlock," John begin hesitantly. "While you were away… Or, well, has anyone ever...?" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes derisively and propped his head up on a fist as he opened his mouth to retort, only to close it again when he saw the tears in John's eyes. He reached out with his other hand to rest on John's hip. "Are you asking if I have ever been raped?" 

Anxiety was building in John's chest as he remembered Sherlock's hesitance, his timidity in bed when they'd finally acknowledged to each other how they felt. He'd put that down to inexperience with having a partner he actually loved, whose pleasure mattered to him, but seeing how he'd been with Molly made him question it. "Raped, or assaulted?" 

Sherlock rubbed circles on John's back, stalling for a moment as he considered how much truth to tell. "Not that I can remember," he reassured lightly, hoping John would take it as a no. 

John was too alert to fall for it. "What does _that_ mean? Did you delete something?" His voice was hushed and panicky. 

Sherlock shook his head rapidly, looking deeply uncomfortable. "No, John, nothing like that. I just ... There's an evening from before I knew you you that I can't remember." 

John took a moment to hear what was not being said. "You think you took something that was laced?" Sherlock winced; John knew he hated to be reminded of his drugs use and especially hated talking about it to John. "Please, Sherlock." 

Running his fingers through his curls in frustration, Sherlock shrugged. "There's not much to tell. I blacked out, and I shouldn't have. I woke up 12 hours later and the man I'd been with was gone. I always wondered what happened while I was out. Perhaps he just intended to rob me. If so, I'm sure he was disappointed; I didn't have anything of value on me." 

John's scrunched up his face, trying to find a delicate way to ask the obvious question. "You couldn't ... tell?" 

Sherlock rolled onto his back, considering at the ceiling. "The data was compromised." John thought about this for a long moment but turned to him in confusion. Sherlock spoke quietly. "I'd had sex approximately an hour before, with his dealer." He stared determinedly at the ceiling, cheeks flushed as shame washed over him. John filled in the blanks about how they'd acquired the drugs and it occurred to him that the man must've known Sherlock had been cash-strapped. Next, it occurred to him that Sherlock would have been perfectly capable of coming to the same conclusion had he wanted to think about it. He decided to end the line of questioning. 

John rolled on his side, nuzzling Sherlock's neck, but Sherlock continued to stare stoically at the ceiling. John murmured into his neck. "Sorry, love. Shouldn't have brought it up."

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't think much about that time of my life." They laid quietly, and Sherlock rolled toward John again, scanning John's face. "You've never been sexually assaulted; your distress is from your time in the Army. You've seen men and women fall apart too many times." John held his gaze, smiling faintly. Sherlock cocked his head, looking suddenly anxious. "I'm not wrong, am I?" 

John shook his head. "You're not wrong." A long silence stretched between them, and John thought about something that had been niggling at him all evening. "That's the first time I've ever known you to choose to work with Sally." 

Sherlock stroked John's arm absently. "I knew she would be sympathetic. Many officers are not." 

John frowned lightly into the quiet room and considered that for a few long moments. "Does she know you know?" 

Sherlock's huff was entirely humourless. "At times, I regret teaching you to observe." He shrugged. "We've never spoken about it, but I expect she knows. Certainly after tonight. She's not stupid." 

John's snort rang too-loud in the somber room. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said about her." An awkward tension fell between them, and John realized that Sherlock was holding his breath as though steeling for a blow. "Oh, Sherlock, love, no. You don't have to tell me anything. That's her story." John felt the tension leak away from the long body next to him and he leaned in for a long kiss. "Let's rest for a few hours and then see what we can do about this bastard in the morning." 

They slept restlessly, tangled together protectively.


	3. Chapter 3

A week passed, and John had been right: the fuzzyheaded, distant sensation had eventually faded. Molly had already been scheduled for a few days off, and then she called in for another two days at John's insistence so her arm could heal. On the fifth day, Molly forced herself out of bed, letting the hot spray of the shower slowly coax her into alertness. The bruises on her arm and hips were yellowed and fading, and the sharp anxiety had finally given way to numbness. She was still staying with John and Sherlock, but Sherlock’s hovering was growing tiresome. After toweling off and getting dressed, Molly twisted her hair into a long plait and considered her appearance. _Is it obvious? Will everyone be able to tell?_ Molly mentally shook herself. That was stupid. No one could look at someone’s face and tell if she’d been raped. Well, no one except Sherlock. All the same, she spent more time than normal applying and adjusting her makeup, which Sherlock had brought from her flat when he and John went to investigate. 

When she went downstairs, Sherlock was shoving a test tube into a centrifuge with all the manic energy of someone who hadn’t slept in two days and John was staring blearily at the dripping coffee maker. He grunted in a way that might have been a greeting, and Molly smiled, nodding at him slightly. Finally, the last few drops sputtered into the pot and John hummed gratefully as he poured cups for himself and Molly.  
They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sherlock absorbed in his test tubes, occasionally scratching out notes, and Molly and John clutching their cups of coffee. When half of his cup was empty, John frowned at Molly. “You sure that arm is up for work already?”  
A stab of white-hot rage shot through Molly and she concealed it, but only just. No one gave a damn about her arm. John was wondering if poor, fragile, helpless Molly was ready to face the real world yet. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and breathed out the worst of her anger. John was trying to be kind. “I mostly spend my days with dead people, John. It’ll be fine. I can’t hide in your room forever.”

“The _guest_ room,” Sherlock swiftly corrected, scowling. 

John shot him a look. “We’re in no rush for you to leave, Molly. As Sherlock somewhat rudely pointed out, we’re not using that room.”

Molly nodded. Her rage had left her as quickly as it came and she felt impossibly more tired. Pushing herself off the chair, she rinsed her cup in the sink and pulled on her backpack, leaving without another word. 

Sherlock tossed down the pen he was using to take notes and frowned up at John. “Why did you let her go?”

John shrugged, slurping his last sip of coffee and pouring himself another cup. “Who am I to stop her?”

“Her _doctor_!” 

John shrugged again. “And as her doctor, I trust that she knows when she is ready to go back to work. She doesn’t need my permission and she’s really doing quite well.”  
“Well?" Sherlock sneered. "She is hardly speaking or eating. She’s wearing a half-pound of makeup to hide the circles under her eyes."

John lifted his cup in acknowledgement. "True, I would like to see her eating a little more regularly. But she's not drinking, she's not taking drugs, she is not working herself until she passes out from exhaustion to keep from having to think." He cocked a pointed eyebrow at Sherlock, who had narrowed his eyes at him. "A more self-destructive person might handle this sort of trauma very poorly, don't you agree?"

Sherlock huffed indignantly, but John held his gaze, clearly expecting an answer. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You've made your point."  
John looked at the clock on the stove. “Shit, I’m going to be late.” Taking one last gulp of coffee before putting the cup in the sink, he dropped a kiss on Sherlock’s mouth. “Molly’s strong, Sherlock. She’s going to be fine. Just find the bastard, eh?”  
The police had so far had no luck in tracking down Molly’s attacker, and neither had Sherlock. The DNA sample John collected had matched another unsolved rape case approximately a year old. The other woman had been approximately the same age and build as Molly but had met her attacker on an online dating website; he had raped her on their second date, in her apartment. The mobile numbers he gave his victims were burners, and his attempts to track the man through his IP address had been fruitless. When he and John had gone to Molly’s flat, they had found some evidence. Sherlock had confirmed Molly’s approximation of the man’s height and weight, although Sherlock had trusted her judgment on those details; she measured height and weight daily at work. He now knew that the man was unmarried, probably divorced, and likely worked a desk job. Not much to go on. After several days of dead ends, Sherlock decided to try a different strategy. He had “acquired” a transcript of all communications between the attacker and his previous victim, and Molly had forwarded him their text messages before she deleted them. Sherlock opened the file on his laptop containing all the text known to be written by the attacker, and printed it.  
Then he stuck two patches on his arm and settled in to work.

\-------------

Molly sat in her office and for about half an hour, she felt quite normal as she reviewed her caseload for the day, reviewing the police reports, medical records and initial bloodwork from the new deaths and determining who needed a full autopsy. She groaned as she saw a stabbing victim on her list. The police had counted approximately 30 stabs and suspected multiple assailants. Although she found those cases a fun challenge, they were very time consuming and she was already starting the day behind schedule.

Then her nurse walked in and asked after her arm, and she suddenly had to push away the sensation of a heavy man's hot breath on her face. But she managed to smile, say that it was nothing, she'd injured it at the gym. Mark didn't ask for further details, thankfully, and they problem solved the best way to juggle their cases for the day.

As predicted, the stabbing victim had been a challenge, and Molly struggled slightly to keep her focus. After the third time she had to ask the nurse to read back what she'd just said, he had offered to dash to the cafeteria for some coffee, but Molly shook her head firmly. "I just want to make sure I have it all correct," she reassured him with false brightness.

Finally, they had painstakingly catalogued each wound and determined that two knives had been used and that approximately half of the wounds had been inflicted while the victim was supine. Molly washed up and retreated gratefully to her small office. It was time for her to review lab results and dictate autopsy reports but first she needed to take a moment to decompress. Her arm was aching badly from overuse and her mind felt overwhelmed from the effort of her intense focus that morning. She shrugged off her lab coat and stretched her aching arm before closing her eyes and reaching up to massage her temples. God, what she wouldn't give for a drink.

As if on cue, her door opened with a swift knock and her nurse entered, bearing a cup of cafeteria coffee. Not what she had meant by a drink, but beggars can't be choosers. "You are an angel from heaven," Molly said reverently, reaching out for the warm cup.

Mark's broad smile faded as he looked at her outstretched arm. Belatedly, Molly remembered the yellowing fingertip bruises still visible for any pathology nurse to read like a newspaper headline, and swiftly retracted it under the desk. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

He looked at her with raised eyebrows and waited a beat. Molly knew he wouldn't ask her directly, but he might ask someone else if she didn't offer anything up. She sighed in annoyance. "It's really nothing."

One of his eyebrows descended an inch. "Looked like something," he challenged.

Unbidden rage shot through her. "It's really nothing that concerns you, I meant," she snapped.

Both eyebrows returned to their rightful places. "You don't want to talk about it, ok. But I'd put your lab coat back on if you want to stick to your story about the gym."

Molly shoved her arms into the sleeves with rather more force than was necessary. "Thank you for your _concern_ ," she spat at him.

He held his hands up mildly. "I _am_ concerned, but I'm sorry for overstepping," he responded. "I'm going to go biopsy the kidneys and gallbladder. Let me know if you need anything."

 _Well done, you great idiot._ Molly felt her face heat up as Mark closed the door quietly. Once again, her rage had flooded out of her as quickly as it had come, leaving only mortification in its wake. She had never yelled at a nurse before and after all, Mark had only been worried. They worked closely and while they weren't confidants, she considered him a friend. He was a good nurse and in a morgue, it didn't take Sherlock's expertise to look at that bruise and know a man had grabbed her forcefully and immobilized her arm while she struggled to get away.

Shaking herself, Molly took a long sip of horrid coffee and began reviewing lab reports. Once again, it was an effort to stay focused but she eventually got through it. Time passed without her noticing and she only realized the hour when Mark knocked hesitantly and entered with some more lab results. Molly was overly polite, trying to make up for her outburst. They discussed the biopsies and planned their cases for the following day.

Just as Mark turned to leave, Molly finally found her courage. "I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier. I don't know what came over me."

Mark nodded, smiling. "You were embarrassed," he said, by way of accepting her apology.

"My arm ... I had a bad date," Molly blurted out, face growing hot. "Please, just ... I'd appreciate if you'd keep it between us."

His eyes filled with pity. "Of course, Dr. Hooper."


	4. Chapter 4

Molly returned to the flat exhausted beyond comprehension and wrinkled her nose when she saw that Sherlock was home. She reflected on how much more energy it had taken to look at, listen to, and speak with people as the day wore on. It wasn’t exactly that she wanted to be alone, but she didn’t want to be required to talk, or think, or do anything. She paused on the top stair outside the flat and braced herself for Sherlock’s manic energy before pushing it open.  


Strewn all over the kitchen table were pages with bits of text highlighted and notes scribbled here and there. Sherlock looked up, eyes gleaming, mouth open to tell her something. Molly closed her eyes wearily without really meaning to, and when Sherlock’s voice never came, she opened them again and saw that he had closed his mouth and was observing her. _Oh, thank God. Please deduce me so I don’t have to bloody talk._ She shrugged out of her jacket and toed off her shoes and did not attempt to shutter her exhaustion one bit. She looked up at Sherlock, checking to see that he had understood, and he nodded at her.  


He stood, approaching her. “You worked that stabbing case for Lestrade today?” She nodded. He reached for his violin, which was laying out on the desk. “Three knives?”  


“Two,” Molly corrected, “But one of the blades was used by two people. A right-handed attacker with a forward grip and a left-handed attacker with a reverse grip, edge out.”  


Sherlock’s eyes lit up and he reached for his phone to send a quick text message before he turned back to Molly. “Violin or telly?”  


Molly settled down on the sofa, pulling her feet under her and resting her head and knees against the back cushion. “Violin sounds lovely.” She closed her eyes and listened as Sherlock plinked at the strings, tuning them briefly. He swept the bow across the strings and Molly smiled fondly as she realized he was playing “Danny Boy”, of all songs. As she listened, she remembered pressing her ear to a broad chest to feel the rumble of a rich tenor, breathing in the scent of tobacco and soap and mint. When he finished, she kept her eyes closed but mumbled, “How did you know?”  


“You mentioned once that your mother was born in Galway. Your grandfather used to sing it?”  


Molly nodded, and when Sherlock saw the faint smile on her face he felt a knot in his stomach loosen. He played “Lament for the Wild Geese” then “Lannigan’s Ball”, as he ran the data he’d learned that day over in his head. There had to be a turn of phrase, or a misspelling, or a word choice that made Molly’s attacker stand out. He closed his eyes and lost himself in playing “Mna na h-Eireann”, letting the back of his mind read back over all the text he had reviewed that day. 

Molly didn't know exactly what triggered it. The Irish tunes then comforting at first, made her think about a time in her life when she felt safe and secure and loved. Then, at some point during the mournful last song, she had realized that she would never feel secure in that same way again. She hadn't had a child's sense of safety for quite some time, of course, especially with her job being what it was. But she had not felt properly safe since her rape, and she was only just now realizing how much that fear was affecting her. She hugged her knees to her chest, and rested her chin on top of them. Molly hadn’t cried since she’d been raped, but she found that after her exhausting day she simply did not have the energy to hold them in. She rolled her head, pressing her cheek to her knees so that Sherlock wouldn’t see the tears that were slowly rolling down her face. The fear and grief she’d been holding at bay for five days pressed down on her, forcing a sob out of her chest, and suddenly she had no control over her tears at all.  


The music stopped and Molly heard Sherlock set down his Strad, then felt his weight on the sofa behind her. He gently stroked her hair, and she took a deep, shuddering breath, willing herself to stop crying, but a wail ripped itself from her lungs instead. She felt as though she was cracking in half. Sherlock squeezed her shoulder lightly, and pulled up subtly; she could pretend not to notice if she wanted, or accept the invitation. After a moment’s hesitation, she uncurled herself slightly, turned to Sherlock, and lay against his narrow chest.  


It had never _really_ been romantic between them, although they had explored their feelings (and bodies) ages ago, before Sherlock met John. It had been fun, and sweet, and clarifying. They loved each other, they discovered. That didn’t change the fact that Sherlock’s need for danger and adrenaline was incompatible with Molly’s need for stability. Add to that Sherlock’s strong, if not exclusive, preference for men, and they’d realized within two weeks that they were nothing more or less than dear friends, and both considered the experiment a raging success. Molly was jealous when Sherlock and John met, and at first that worried her. She had never felt a moment’s regret over their friendship, or the slightest bit of jealousy over Sherlock’s previous dates, but when John first entered the picture and she saw how much he and Sherlock meant to each other, envy temporarily consumed her. She eventually confided in Greg, who responded with a laugh. “I don’t want either one of them, but I want what they have. Googly eyes and all. Just, y’know, with someone else.” 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around her comfortingly, tucked her hair behind her ears, and kissed the top of her head. He held her close, let her soak his undoubtedly expensive shirt, and didn’t try to tell her that everything was fine. She leaned into his familiar embrace, keened, and reflected that she had been wrong before. In this moment, she felt utterly safe, and oh, what a relief it was to set down her fear for awhile. Her grief was raw and insistent and she didn’t fight it. She allowed Sherlock to hold her, kiss her, and murmur to her, easing her through it until finally the sharp emotions seemed to reach their end. Wiping her face, she took a shaky breath and pushed herself up a bit. Sherlock handed her a fresh tissue and she thanked him, blowing into it before adding it to the rather disgusting pile on the coffee table.  


Molly smiled at him awkwardly. “I’m sor—oh my God, Sherlock, your shirt!” She clasped a hand to her mouth for a moment, then reached down to wipe at it with a mostly-clean tissue.  


“Don’t be stupid, Molly. It’s just a shirt. It was going to the dry cleaners tomorrow regardless.” She flung the tissue back on the pile and released the first two buttons before Sherlock’s hands closed over hers. “Stop. This is hardly the worst this shirt has ever seen. Besides, John will be home momentarily and I’d rather he not walk in to you undressing me, given our history.”  


She winced a bit. “Sorry. I never really think of us as having a ‘history’, but I suppose that’s how John would look at it.” She scooted over a few inches so they weren’t touching, and Sherlock shot her a withering look. Molly crossed her arms. “Don’t look at me like that! Now you’ve got me thinking about whether John minds our friendship because we shagged a few times nearly a decade ago.”  


Sherlock rolled his eyes, and it was comforting, being treated like a bit of an idiot. “Why would he _mind_? We’ve never given him a reason to.”  


“What’s _this_ about, then?” she smirked, nodding at his fingers refastening the buttons.  


He scoffed. “Well, I don’t want us to _start_ giving him reasons, you daft cow,” he said, with fond incredulity. He studied her face for a moment. “Have you eaten today?”  


Molly shrugged. “I had some almonds around mid-afternoon. It was a busy day.”  


He raised an eyebrow, beckoning her to walk with him to the kitchen. She grabbed an armful of soggy tissues and rose wearily. Sherlock glanced back at her. “What about yesterday?”  


John walked in just as Molly was tossing the tissues in the bin and retorting defensively about Sherlock’s hypocrisy, a familiar anger adding more heat to the words than was warranted. John walked in, kissing Sherlock lightly and smiling at Molly. “Don’t you see, though? This means Sherlock intends to actually cook something. Hopefully in one of the pans that he reserves for food.” He turned a significant glare to Sherlock, and Molly couldn’t help but giggle, her anger temporarily dissolved.  


"Still no appetite?" Molly shrugged noncommittally, ignoring Sherlock's scoffs behind her. John nodded sympathetically. "It's to be expected, but you really can't spare the weight. Work days are going to be exhausting if your body is fighting to fuel itself." Molly rolled her eyes, channeling Sherlock in a snit, but John pressed on. "You look like hell, Molly. Eat. Drink something other than coffee."

Molly bristled. "I'll take that under advisement, _Doctor_ Watson." John grabbed her elbow as she walked away, and she spun back, eyes wild, and shoved in the chest so hard that he toppled backward, bouncing against the wall. He righted himself, holding his hands up in the same don't-shoot posture Mark had used earlier. Sherlock quickly stepped between them, steadying John’s shoulder and holding a gentling palm out to Molly, who was just realizing what she’d done. She clasped her hand to her mouth. "Shit, I'm sorry."

John shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. Shouldn't have grabbed you, especially there." Sherlock was studying Molly’s face, not yet moving from his spot between them. John shoved at him exasperatingly. “Stand down, Sherlock. We’re fine.”  


Molly retreated a few steps and Sherlock finally moved, walking into the kitchen. “I’m not _fine_ ,” she spat. “I think I’m losing it. I yelled at my nurse today! The littlest thing sets me off. It’s like there’s this angry fear just under the surface, ready to leap up at any moment.” She scrubbed at her eyes, which were starting to well up again.  


Sherlock handed them each a glass of whisky, ignoring John’s pointed glare. “I’d say you have plenty of reason to be angry.”  


John took a sip. “More importantly, you have plenty of reason to feel afraid. Sometimes anxiety attacks present as anger. It’s not always rocking and crying.”  


Molly considered that for a few moments. “That’s would fit,” she admitted. She knocked back her whisky, and washed the glass in the sink. Nodding her goodnight to the boys, she climbed the stairs wearily and collapsed into bed without undressing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a bit of levity!  
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, when Molly stumbled into the bathroom to pee and brush her teeth, she found a prescription along with a pill bottle in John's name with the same medication inside. A note from John read, "These really helped me when my anxiety was bad. Feel free to try mine for a week or so before filling the prescription if you're interested in seeing if it helps."

 _What the hell_. She shook out a small blue pill and swallowed it with a handful of water from the tap. She could hardly deny needing a bit of neurochemical help, given how the day before had gone.

And that day, it _was_ a little bit easier. She was still exhausted, and thinking took a lot more effort than ought to have, but she found it's a little bit easier to reel in the rage she was feeling.

And the following day, better still. Her appetite started to return, and whether it was because of the food or the pills, she had more energy. She still felt angry quite often, but keeping it from bursting out of her was easier. 

On Friday, Sally had texted her, and so that evening she refreshed her makeup and met her at a pub. They ordered sandwiches and pints and chit chatted about the stabbing case Molly had worked on. 

Sally took a sip of her lager, then raised an eyebrow. "So, how's it been, being back at work?"

Molly fidgeted a bit. "The first couple of days were rough. John prescribed me some nerve pills and they seem to be helping." She looked down at her plate, picking idly at the crust. 

Sally smiled warmly. "God, you're so lucky to have those two." Molly looked up in surprise to see Sally leaning forward a bit. "I'll deny saying that if Sherlock asks, mind. But I didn't start on pills or go to therapy or anything for a couple of months after." 

Molly nodded. She'd suspected that Sally had been raped but was surprised to hear her speaking about it so openly. "How long did you need them?"

Sally thought for a moment. "About 6 months, I guess? I tried to go off them after a month." She rolled her eyes, shaking her head at her own foolishness. "I hated having to take them, but it was just too soon. Couldn't focus on my studies at all, snd I started skipping class again. So I went back on them and told myself not to rush it. Tried again a few months later and had no problems." 

Molly shifted in her seat, turning her glass on the table. "So, you were at uni?"

Sally nodded. "Yeah, out drinking like a fish and wound up alone with someone I recognized from a class. God, I was stupid. He talked me into going to his room to play Grand Theft Auto, and then decided to get a leg over. Took a picture of me crying while he was fucking my mouth. It was a shite picture, but he had fun showing it around. Said my eyes were watering because I kept gagging."

"Jesus, Sally. That's fucking awful."

She nodded. "Oh yeah, he was a complete nutter. Started out fucking me --" She waved at her lap. "-- _Properly_ , then pulled out and fucked my mouth. Came all over my face. Upside: didn't have to worry about getting knocked up. Downside ..."

Molly winced. "No evidence."

"Right. Plus it's fucking disgusting, of course." She sipped her lager. "Never even considered reporting it, really."

Molly nodded. "Yeah, I can see that. You were young and drunk and it would've been your word against his." They sat quietly for a minute as a busboy cleared their plates. "Is that when you decided to become a police officer?" 

Sally nodded. "Yeah. Well, after I got my head on straight again."

Molly thought this matched up with what she knew about Sally. She would've hated feeling weak and would have wanted to go into a job for she could be in control, where there were clear divisions of right and wrong. She thought about what Sally had said to her when she made to report. "Did you run into him after that?"

Sally setback, a sarcastic smile on her face. "Didn't Sherlock tell you?"

Molly was confused. "No? What's he have to do with it?"

Sally's eyebrows raised in surprise and she crossed her arms. "Well, we were in a class together, so I saw him once right afterword. Saw him showing people that picture, so I never went back. Failed the bloody class. But then, about two years ago, we were working a money-laundering case, and Sherlock was helping. We walk into the bank and there he was. I had to recuse myself, said we were 'old friends' from uni." Sally smirked. "He _somehow_ ended up with an overseas account linked to him, despite the fact that the other two we nailed both claimed he wasn't involved. He's in lockup for another few years. Sherlock took one look at us and knew. That's why he called me to take your statement." 

Molly laughed out loud. "Sherlock _framed_ him?? Oh my God. I can't believe he's never told me about this." 

Sally snickered into her beer. "Let's just say I had a strict don't ask, don't tell policy about that case." She set the empty glass down. "Besides, why would he tell you about something illegal he did?"

Molly barked a laugh. "You'd be surprised," she said drily. 

Sally stood. "I'm going to get us another round, and then I think I need to hear more about that."

A minute after Sally got up, a man sat in her place. Molly was startled and felt a twist of anxiety, but his smile seemed genuine. "So glad to finally see what you look like when you laugh," he started. "Transforms your whole face. What was so funny?"

Molly looked him over, debating whether to answer. He was cute. Scruffy shadow on his face and short dreads spiking around his head. He had a wide, easy smile and mischievous eyes. _Bet he doesn't get told no much._ He waited, smirking, as she appraised him. "What were we laughing at? A boy, of course." 

His smile cracked wide open and Molly nodded at him as if to remind him that it was his turn to flirt. He took it. "Hmm. I'll hope you were laughing at an ex-boyfriend's expense, I think."

She laughed in spite of herself. "Then you're in luck. A _gay_ ex-boyfriend, even."

He laughed, and Molly wanted to wrap herself up in his caramelly voice. "Doesn't sound like it was a very satisfying arrangement." 

She shrugged, smiling teasingly. "I don't know about that. It was short-lived but we had some fun." Sally walked up behind him, eyebrows nearly disappearing into her hair as she saw him. "I'd love for you to stay and chat, but unfortunately my friend will be wanting her seat back now. Perhaps I'll see you here some other time?"

Sally walked up. "Piss off," she ordered. 

He laughed, standing. "A pleasure to meet you both." He smiled slowly at Molly and strutted away. 

Molly was still watching him walk away when she blurted out, "Please tell me sex isn't ruined forever. Lie to me, if you must."

Sally laughed. "Not ruined, but don't rush it. You'll know when you're ready." Molly tore her eyes away from his jeans and Sally slid a pint across the table. "So. Tell me an embarrassing story about Sherlock."

Molly thought for a moment about something Sally wouldn't use against him. "Remember when the Baby Jesus went missing from the Trafalgar Square display?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit sexual content ahead!  
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~=

Molly thought about sex while Sally excused herself to take a call. She has never been a person who needed tons of it, although she had been known to have the occasional hook up and certainly had a healthy appetite for it when she was dating someone. But it had been unusual for her to have a one night stand with a stranger. She wondered, though, how she was supposed to react to sex now that she was Molly, Rape Survivor. 

She thought about how things could pan out. If she waited until she was totally comfortable to start dating someone, it could be months, maybe a year or more before she got laid. She had gone that long before, but she couldn't help but feel that this was different; this was hiding from her sexuality, as if all penises had magically become weapons. She thought that if she waited until she knew she was ready, like Sally suggested, sex would become this Big Thing, a special milestone that it didn't deserve to be.

She also thought, in a part of her mind that she knew was not entirely rational, that if she waited for some fairytale perfect moment, some guy might get frustrated and hurt her again. Or she might decide that moment was not perfect enough, freeze up, and get hurt again without the guy even meaning to. Maybe it was better to take control, be the one to make the first move. 

Sally came back to the table, grabbing her bag and apologizing. "Greg says he needs me to come in and answer some questions for a report, and it has to be done tonight." She rolled her eyes as she rummaged through her wallet. "Shit! I don't have any cash." She eyed the line at the bar as she retrieved her credit card.

Molly waved her off. "I'll settle the tab, don't worry. Go on! You can cover next time."

Sally shifted I'm comfortably. "You sure? How will you get home?"

Molly made a shoeing motion with her hands. "I'll take a taxi! No worries. I'm _fine_ ," she insisted, when Sally opened her mouth to argue. "Go, so you can finish up with Greg and get home at a reasonable hour."

Sally shrugged and waved as she walked towards the door, pulling her coat around her and popping a mint that she'd retrieved from a tin inside her bag.

Caramel Voice sidled up beside her as she stood in line at the bar to pay. "Alone at last, eh?" 

Molly shot an amused glance at him. "I _was_ alone, for about three minutes. But you seem intent on curing my loneliness." 

He smiled at her slowly. "I do aim to please. What can I get you to drink?

She sized him up for a moment before responding. "Tequila, I think."

His sweet smile turned mischievous. "All the best nights of my life have started with those words," he chuckled. Just then, bartender approach them and caramel voice ordered two shots of Pitron.

"Cheers," Molly said, clinking their shot glasses together before she knocked hers back.

Heat burned her throat and it felt good. She smiled as she felt the heat spread through her chest, and watched as Caramel Voice raised an eyebrow and tipped it back in one shot as well. He closed his eyes for moment and when he opened, he touched her elbow, leaning to speak in her ear. "One more?" 

"God, yes." Molly was starting to feel loose-limbed, properly relaxed for the first time this week. He seemed to hail bartenders as well as Sherlock found taxis, and aiming later he was handing her another shot. She threw it back again, holding his eye contact, and the shot hit her in the chest like a cannonball. Oh, she felt warm and loose and ... _free_. Fearless.

She lowered her shot glass and licked tequila off her lips. Caramel Voice's eyes stayed on her lips and she felt her heart thumping. He leaned in, slowly, and then closed the distance between them.

It was floaty, and dizzying, and scary, and absolutely _exhilarating_. She opened her mouth and then he slid his tongue against hers and they were flat-out snogging in the middle of a pub. He pulled away, grinning, and pulled her by the hand to a quiet hallway. Then he leaned down, his mouth frantically seeking hers. His big hands pulled her face close, then one drifted down her body to skim her breast before squeezing her arse. 

Molly's breath quickened as adrenaline shot through her. His hands on her felt wrong, foreign, but also exciting, as though she was cheating death. She broke the kiss and he moved down her neck, releasing her arse to squeeze her tits as he kissed down toward them. 

Her heart was thudding against her ribs as though trying to escape. She stepped back, pulling him by the hand to the handicapped loo a few steps down the hall. Inside, she locked the door and gripped his shirt tightly to hide the shaking of her hands. She swayed a bit on her heels and her kisses grew sloppy as the tequila took hold. He pulled her shirt over her head, staring at her tits and running his thumbs over the hard, fabric-covered nubs of her nipples. He started to move his hands toward her waist and Molly felt fear swell inside her. 

_Take control!_ Molly swatted his hands aside, pulling at his belt buckle and tipping her head up for an urgent kiss as she unfastened his button and zipper. Taking a deep breath and attempting to steady the spinning room, she reached inside to grasp his quickly-hardening cock. He groaned and let his head thunk against the door as she stroked him to aching hardness. He raised his head again when she stopped, and held her gaze as she dropped to her knees. 

_Don't be a fucking tease, Molly. People fuck on the first date all the time._

Molly closed her mouth over the hard, rather large cock in front of her, chasing away the voice in her head. Caramel Voice threaded his fingers in her hair and thrust deeply -- not enough to hurt her, just enough to make her feel used. Molly's clammy hands slipped over his cock as she attempted to work the shaft as she all but swallowed the head. He started panting and cursing above her, and Molly felt -- for a moment -- proud, that she still could be used like this. He fucked into her mouth and his thrusts grew sloppy. He thrust too hard and too quickly, gagging her. He whispered an apology and then groaned a warning before coming against her now-sore throat. 

Molly swallowed, resisting the urge to retch, and after a moment he untangled his hands from her hair and she pulled off of him with a pop. He helped her to her feet and wiped her lower lip with a giggle. Molly retrieved her top from the grimy floor and pulled it over her head has he tucked himself away and re-fastened his jeans. She stumbled a bit as she pulled her top into place and he reached out to steady her. She looked up at him. 

He grinned. "Thanks, babe. That was brilliant." 

She unlocked the door and teetered back into the bar. "Bye, sailor!"

\---  
Molly stumbled in at half one, shushing herself on the stairs and praying Sherlock would actually be asl--

"Molly!" Sherlock flung the door open, his voice tinged with relief. 

_Shitting shit!_

Sherlock reached a hand out to her, amusement in his face. "I haven't seen you this potted in ages." He pulled her into the light of the flat and swept his eyes over her, smile sliding off his face. "Oh, Molly," he admonished. " _Why_?? You don't do this."

Molly frowned. "It was--" She cleared her throat, tried again. "I just wanted to get it out of the way, on my own terms."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh yes," he drawled. "It sounds like he was a real gentleman." 

Molly held on to the wall as she kicked off her heels. "Fuck off, Sherlock. It's nothing to do with you."

He bit his lip, seeming to want to retort, but instead backed away and let her stumble past and clomp upstairs. He listened until she flopped onto the bed with a loud squeak, then locked the door and went to bed. 

"She alrigh'?" John mumbled sleepily. 

Sherlock sighed. "She's home safe. I doubt very much she's alright."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this was unambiguous, but just to be clear, this is NOT a Magical Healing Cock situation.
> 
>  
> 
> Shameless request -- this fic isn't getting much love. I'd love if you considered leaving concrit, encouragement, or kudos to let me know what ~~your~~ you're thinking!  
>  \--BK  
> OMG, my phone autocorrected you're to your and I missed it!! Mortifying!


	7. Chapter 7

In the morning, Molly drank a glass of water from the bathroom sink to chase away her cotton mouth before brushing her teeth and showering. Her throat felt a bit raw, her knees a bit sore. She grimaced at her reflection. _But hey, at least you're not a tease._

She wasn't sure what it meant that she wanted someone to hurt her again tonight.

\--------

Sherlock had a breakthrough. Her attacker had said "cell phone" and written "color" and "favor" in messages to the other victim. Given that, Sherlock had done searches on various dating sites using several bits of American phrasing and found someone who might be him. 

"I don't think he's American. More likely, one or both of his parents are expatriates, and he was raised here."

Molly nodded along, biting her lip nervously. Knowing Sherlock, he would take this new information and sniff out her attacker by day's end. Now that finding and prosecuting him was a possibility, Molly was not sure what she wanted. When if it went to trial? What if she had to testify? She spent a lot of time in court, knew all the judges and bailiffs, and the thought of them knowing about this, pitying her, made her a little bit ill. Would she be taken as seriously as an expert witness if they heard her saying things like, "He said I could take his big dick"? 

Sherlock saw her nervousness, but misinterpreted. "Don't worry, Moll. I'll find him."

Sure enough, by 4:00, Sherlock tracked the man's IP address and had him brought to NSY. 

Sally brought Molly in for a lineup, and stood with her as she faced the two-way mirror. "Take your time," Sally urged. "Be absolutely certain."

"They're so close," Molly breathed. They were close enough to reach out and touch each other, but for the glass between them.

"Yeah, always throws people for a bit of a loop," Sally said. "But they can't see you. They might see your shadow a bit, but not you."

As soon as he walked in, call Molly spotted him. "Oh my God," she murmured. "Sherlock actually found him."

Sally looked at her warningly. "Take your time. Look at everybody. Be VERY sure, because getting this wrong would really screw you."

Molly was already sure, but she understood the process and was determined to get it correct. She had them turn around, and, quaking like a leaf, she went to stand behind him. "Have them face front again," Molly requested, and when Sally gave the order she was face-to-face with her rapist. 

Her breath caught in her throat. She asked Sally to have him smile, put his fist on the glass above his head. She pictured him charming her, overpowering her, wrenching her arm, pinning her to the wall. She could feel his hands on her arms, his hot breath in her face. Finally, she asked Sally to have him repeat a few phrases. _Don't be a tease. People fuck on the first date all the time. Take my big dick._

His face was red, and Molly felt her own face warming, too. Good. She hadn't been in control that night, but she was in control now, and she intended to hold him accountable for the way he had humiliated her. 

_I can't wait to fuck you. Frigid bitches are always so tight._

The words rang in her ears all the time. It was good to hear them spoken aloud again. She felt dirty, humiliated hearing him say them in front of the others, and that swooped low in her belly in a way it ought not to. And seeing him humiliated and knowing she had done it felt fucking amazing. Molly's hands were rock-steady now. "It's him," she said to Sally. "Number 3." 

Sally's face was stuck somewhere between extreme discomfort and admiration. Molly strode out of the room and watched as he was led away in handcuffs. She inclined her head to him as he passed. 

"Bitch," he hissed quietly. 

"You're goddamn right," Molly hissed back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a short chapter, I just couldn't resist leaving it with that line. --BK


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags! This is a pretty explicit chapter. --BK  
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock stopped pacing when he saw Molly and Sally approach. John stood expectantly. "Was it him?" he asked.

Molly nodded, and Sherlock smiled in grim satisfaction. She stood on her toes and pulled his neck down to give him a swift kiss on the cheek. " _Thank you_ ," she said emphatically. "I wasn't sure I really wanted you to find him but I feel safer knowing you have."

Sally interrupted. "Just ..." Everyone turned to look at her. "Be careful, yeah? He's going to make bail and now he has an ax to grind."

Sherlock waved this off, but John looked between Sally and Molly curiously. He let it pass, though, and simply listened as Molly promised to be more aware of her surroundings than normal. 

They stopped for sushi on the way home and Molly insisted on ordering sake. She felt a familiar, pleasant hum in her blood as the alcohol hit her bloodstream and listened quietly as John told a funny story about fishing an entire dandelion from a child's nose. They were laughing as he mimed pulling individual petals out of his nose when someone at the next table recognized Sherlock and stopped to introduce himself and ask about his lost dog. John faked an urgent text from Lestrade before Sherlock could reply, and a few minutes later they were headed back to the flat. 

It was 9:00, and Molly wanted to celebrate. Sherlock and John settled in to watch a movie on the sofa ( _Bad Boys II_ ; John's choice, obviously). She wandered up to the guest room and looked in her suitcase for something suitable. Sherlock had packed her plenty of work clothes, but she wanted to be noticed tonight. She settled on jeans and a button-up blouse that she generally wore under a blazer because it was really a bit too tight to be decent. She unbuttoned it down to the top of her bra and added a necklace that drew the eye to her cleavage, such as it was. Next, she padded to the bathroom to do her makeup -- smokey eyes, bold lips, neutral cheeks. She added a few curls to her hair and sprayed it in place. 

After buttoning her shirt up a bit, she went downstairs and tried to sneak past the boys unnoticed. Sherlock was thoroughly bored with the movie, though, and locked on to her immediately. He disentangled himself from John and approached her as she was pulling on her heels. "Molly, don't do this," he urged in a hushed voice. 

She rolled her eyes. "I'm just going to meet Sally for a drink. To celebrate." 

Now it was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. "Please. Are you gay now, too? Because you wear your hair like this exclusively on dates that you hope will end with intercourse." He scratched his scalp nervously. "Don't do this, Moll. Not at some pub with some random bloke. You've never wanted that before. If you ... If you _need_ ... That is, I could ask John ..."

An image flashed in her mind, unbidden, of kneeling on all fours while Sherlock fucked her mouth and John hammered into her from behind. Rough, delicious, perfect. They could take her over and make her forget all the bad thoughts in her mind for a little while, replace them with new bad-good ones. It could ruin things between all of them, would definitely cause a complication in the very least. A thrill ran through Molly as she thought about flirting with the possibility of destroying her safety net. But then she looked at Sherlock's face, which was so open and worried and loving, and knew he and John would never push her the way she wanted to be pushed just now. 

"No," she said firmly. "That's not a good idea." It was certainly true on many levels.

She patted Sherlock's face tenderly. "Don't worry, I'll be careful. I remember what Sally said, and I'll take a taxi both directions. No walking tonight. It's just a couple drinks with Sally." This was a bald faced lie and they both knew it, but it seemed kinder to say that than the truth.

Sherlock looked miserable as she strode out the door. Molly ignored the sick guilt weighing in the bottom of her stomach.

\-----------

Before she walked in, Molly unfastened the top three buttons of her shirt, so that the edge of her bra peeked out. She silenced her phone and walked into the club. 

She walked up to the bar and ordered a tequila slammer. As she waited, she tried to look around seeming too conspicuous. This was a more rowdy pub than the one she had gone to with Sally, closer to a club atmosphere. She would have preferred an actual club, but didn't have the right clothes at John and Sherlock's. This place was still a smallish, and comfortable – – there were some booths with cushy bench seating, and while the music playing was a clubby mix of R&B, hip-hop, and top 40, it wasn't played at such a loud volume that it was impossible to hear the person right next to you. 

Of course, it was loud enough that people were rather forced to get close if they wanted to talk. 

Molly sipped her drink, made occasional conversation with the bartender, ordered a second drink. She was nearly done with it when a man stood close and flashed a wide smile. "I saw you sitting by yourself and just had to come over here and tell you that you're very pretty."

Molly cocked her head, considering him with a sly smile. He was objectively pretty average -- small, brown eyes, round face, ruddy complexion. But he had a smile that lit up his face and a swagger that tipped him over into attractive. _He'll do._ She sipped her drink and raised a teasing eyebrow. "What about me do you find pretty?" 

He set his beer on the bar and hummed in mock concentration. "I can't decide if my favorite part is your gorgeous cheekbones, your beautiful smile, or your cute nose."

Molly laughed. "My nose?"

He tapped it lightly. "It's adorable. Like a little mouse."

She arched an eyebrow. "Do you find that women often enjoy being compared to rodents?" There was no heat in her voice, because she wasn't angry, but if he carried on being stupid she would have to move this along.

He winced. "That came out badly. Can we strike it from the record? What I meant to say is it's a 3-way tie between your cheekbones, your smile, and your legs."

She snorted a bit and disguised it as a cough. Her legs were under the bar. "Better," she said agreeably. 

He sat next to her and called the bartender. "Another of whatever she's having, please." He turned back to Molly. "How about me, then? Seeing anything you like?" 

Molly just barely contained the urge to roll her eyes. "Well, at the moment, it's your lips." She let her gaze drop to his mouth and smiled. "Gorgeous smile, beautiful lips. But I reserve the right to change my answer, depending on where the night takes us." She flicked her eyes down his body than back up.

_There. Ought to be obvious enough even for him._

He grinned, handing her the new cocktail. Molly took a generous sip. Her blood felt like it was singing, now, and recklessness and daring surged through her.

"Jack," The young man introduce himself, clinking his glass against hers. 

"Liz," Molly introduced herself, realizing that she'd never gotten Caramel Voice's name. That ought to be embarrassing, but somehow it was thrilling instead. "So what's your story, Jack?"

The crowd was starting to get louder, and Jack leaned in to shout in her ear, resting his hand on her lower back. "I work in IT," he said loudly. Molly was surprised; she had fully expected him to work a blue-collar job. Maybe he was smarter than his first impression had indicated. Or maybe he was lying. "Bit boring, I'm afraid. What about you?"

Molly didn't have the patience for the complicated tangle of half truths that answering this question usually required. "I'm a pilot!" She shouted back. 

He nearly choked on his beer. "Truly? That's brilliant, I've always wanted to learn to fly." He looked wistful, and Molly knew she was in. "Commercial or private?"

"Private," she shouted back. "Just got in this afternoon from taking some rich executive to California." He listened, fascinated, as Molly spun a story about visiting LA, a place she had actually been once, thankfully.

It was starting to get very crowded, and they were shouting directly in each others ears to be heard. Jack leaned in. "Do you want to get out of here, so we can talk more? Maybe we can go back to my place."

"Sure!" shouted Molly, tipping herself out of her bar stool. 

Jack held steadying arm against Molly's shoulders, and she laughed, resting her hand on his chest as she caught her balance and then sliding it down his arm to clasp his hand. He pulled her to the exit, and out onto the much quieter sidewalk. "I'm just a few blocks this way. I have a flatmate but he should be asleep by now. Poor bloke has to work in the morning." 

Molly smiled cheekily. "We'll just have to do our best to stay quiet then, yeah? I have two flatmates. At least one is wide awake and would interrogate you mercilessly." 

He laughed. "Best not, then. I might not pass."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," she teased, "But you might not be much good to me after he was through."

"He?" Jack raised an eyebrow. "Jealous type?"

Molly laughed. "Hardly. I share a flat with a gay couple." His posture relaxed. "Less debauchery than I expected," she mused. "They are either very quiet or very chaste."

He barked out a laugh. Molly moved her hand, wrapping it around his waist and letting it drift rather lower on his hip than was appropriate. He draped his arm across her shoulders, his hand resting close to her breast. She glanced up and they grinned at other conspiratorially.

"This is me," he said, opening the door and letting her in first. "Straight up the stairs, apartment 22." Molly held the railing and climbed up, letting her hips sway as she ascended, knowing her arse was at his eye level. 

She stayed with her back against the wall next to apartment 22, and waited as he unlock the door. He grasped her by the hands and pulled her inside. Molly wrapped her hands around his neck, stared at his lips, and backed slowly toward the wall just inside the door. 

He didn't seem to need more of an invitation. Pressing in, he teased at first with gentle nips before opening his mouth and running his tongue along Molly's lower lip. She opened for him and felt her blood racing as he dipped inside her mouth. He was a surprisingly good kisser, but within minutes they were sloppy and frantic, and an exhilarating panic tightened Molly's chest as his hands wandered to her breasts. 

_Don't be a tease._ She broke the kiss long enough to tug at his shirt, pull it over his head. He reached for the 3 remaining buttons on Molly's shirt and pushed it off her shoulders. Grabbing her tits, he kissed her jaw, biting and sucking down her neck before running a tongue down her cleavage, dipping under her bra to swipe over her nipple. 

Molly was light-headed now, panting a bit. The door was still partially open beside her and warmth spread through her groin as she thought about being seen. She pulled at his button and fly with shaky hands and then worked on her own when he stepped back to tug them off. His pants did nothing to hide the rather huge bulge trapped inside.

_Take my big dick._

She leaned back against the wall and he closed around her, holding her arms loosely against the wall as he ground his hips against hers, finding her clit unerringly. Molly gasped and he grinned against her mouth, growling, "You like that?" before he plundered her mouth. 

Molly was trembling now, her heart racing as she hooked a leg around him for leverage. He kissed down her neck again and slipped his hands under her thong. Molly silently screamed as he circled a few times before pressing a finger inside of her. Adrenaline was coursing through her and she could no longer tell if it was panic or arousal that had her heart racing. She moaned, rocking against his finger, and he panted against her. "Christ, you're drenched. So fucking hot." _I can't wait to fuck you._

She pulled him through the slit in his pants and stroked his heavy cock. He bit his lip to muffle a groan and thrust up into her hand eagerly. Looking up at him with a sly smile, she spread her legs and he pushed aside her thong. Pulling his cock to her, she rubbed the head against her opening and rocked her hips. 

He pushed into her, and hissed. _Frigid bitches are always so tight._ Molly let out a yelp as he bottomed out, and he quickly pulled back, worried she was in pain. She locked eyes with him. "More," she urged. "Hard." 

He grinned, and thrust up into her firmly, eliciting a long groan from Molly. He froze as footsteps echoed on the stairs in the hallway, but they walked the other direction. They grinned at each other and Molly grabbed his hand as he reached to push the door shut. 

"Leave it," she panted, rocking against him. 

He fucked into her in earnest, then. A sick feeling swooped through Molly's belly that was some combination of heat and shame, and it was intoxicating. "God, your dick is so big," she moaned as she wrapped a leg around him. 

He pulled her up, holding her up by the arse, and fucked her against the wall. "You like that?" he breathed. 

She was achy and it was too deep, really, just on the wrong side of uncomfortable. Arching her back, she tried to meet his thrusts. Actual pain spiked deliciously through her. She cried out, and he covered her mouth. Molly lowered one foot to the floor so she didn't fall, and sucked panicked breaths in through her nose and rutted harder. "Hush, now," he grunted, eyes glinting with lust. "My flatmate is sleeping--" _thrust_ \-- "and if you keeping on moaning like a whore --" _thrust_ \-- "You'll wake him up." _ThrustThrustThrust._ Molly moaned a half-sob into his palm, her eyes prickling with either lust or panic or pain. 

Keeping her mouth covered, he reached his hand between them to swipe at her clit. "Know what I think?" He growled as Molly's eyes rolled back and a muffled groan ripped itself from her throat. "I think you want me to fuck you until you scream and you hope someone hears you." 

He was rocking into her steadily now, shallower pushes that made her throb as he rubbed her clit relentlessly. She felt panic-desire swelling inside of her. The hand on her mouth slipped, partially occluding her nostrils. Her panic-desire shifted almost entirely into panic and she grew dizzy and desperate, sucking in shallow breaths and going rigid.

"Yessss," Jack hissed, rubbing her furiously, and whatever was expanding inside her burst and she sobbed out heaving, raggedy breaths as her pulse reached a fever pitch and then slowly regulated. He released her mouth and she took a greedy breath as he pulled one of her knees up to wrap around him. She whimpered quietly as he pushed roughly into her, huffing hot breaths in her ear. 

Reality struck Molly like a punch to the chest and she realized she was letting a complete stranger fuck her in front of an open door, and she suddenly hated it, wanted his pounding cock and his sweat-slicked chest and his stifling breath away from her. She tried not to think about how cheap she felt as he sought his pleasure without even looking at her, letting her mind go blank as she waited for him to finish. The room was quiet aside from Jack's panting and the slap of his bollocks, but even that sounded far away. Distantly, she realized that he was fucking her quite hard, but the sensation was dull. She came out of her reverie when he cursed and grunted in her ear, pouring inside of her. 

_Escape, now._ She pushed at his shoulders and he released her leg, pulling out of her. She quickly rearranged her knickers and ignored the sensation of semen dripping down her thighs as she pulled her jeans on. 

"Hey," Jack said, pulling at her elbow. "Where's the fire? Why don't you st--"

"I have to go," Molly said firmly, reaching for her shirt and clasping two of the buttons before reaching for the door. 

He looked bewildered. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, no," she reassured. "I just have to go." She swept out of the flat without checking for his reaction. She clambered down the stairs on shaky legs and rushed to the main road, praying for a taxi and managing to hail one after only a few minutes. 

She cried quietly in the back of the cab. She had to pee. Her cunt hurt. She was sticky and disgusting and worthless and all she wanted to do was wash the night off of her, and sleep forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go! I hope a few of you hung in long enough for the smut. ;)  
> \-- BK


	9. Chapter 9

Molly climbed the stairs 221b wearily, already dreaming of fresh knickers and sleep. She nearly jumped out of her skin when John's voice cut through the mostly-dark room. "Molly."

Clutching her hand to her thumping heart, Molly continued kicking off her shoes. "Christ, John," she said tightly. "You scared the life out of me."

John ignored that. "This is very nearly a walk of shame." 

Molly trudged toward him, knowing that he had waited up and wasn't going to let her pass without saying whatever he had to say, but she couldn't quite meet his eyes. "Where's Sherlock?"

John huffed a sarcastic laugh. "Kidnapping case. He got called out a few hours ago to help Lestrade. And _Sally_."

Molly winced, but suspected this was not what John really wanted to talk to her about.

John stood and took a few steps closer. "You need to leave," he said softly.

Molly recoiled as though she'd been struck. Of all the things she'd imagined -- concern, doctorly advice, fury on Sherlock's behalf -- she had never even thought to consider being kicked out.

"Leave?" She asked dumbly. Maybe she was still so drunk that she was mishearing.

John nodded firmly, although his voice was kind. "You can stay the night, but tomorrow, you need to go. I understand why you are self-destructing a bit. Believe me, I would have gone down a similar path after I was discharged if I hadn't met Sherlock. And he understands, too. He has certainly been down the rabbit hole himself. But watching you ..." John shook his head. "He was frantic. Didn't want to take a case about a kid who was kidnapped just this evening, because he was too worried about you. He stood in our kitchen and _cried_ , Molly. About how he didn't know how to save you from yourself. Watching you do this is destroying him, and you cannot stay in our home while you are doing things that hurt him. I know that's not your intent," he said, holding up a hand to Molly's open mouth. "You love Sherlock, and I know that. But I also know that he loves you, and he cannot watch you fall apart like this."

Tears prickles her eyes. "I can't stay there," she said pleaded.

John nodded. "I understand, Molly. But you cannot stay here, either. We both love you and we will help you any other way we can. But you're leaving tomorrow."

Molly's eyes blurred and she excused herself to the loo, where she peeled off her clothes and ran the shower before she finally relieved herself. She kicked her sticky underwear off and dropped them in the bin, then stood to flush as she unbuttoned her shirt. She caught a glimpse of herself and groaned -- splotchy face, frizzy hair, bite marks on her neck, swollen lips, smudged makeup. Walk of shame, indeed. 

She stepped into the too-hot spray and just let it scald her for a moment, relishing the bite on her skin, before she reached for John's bar of plain soap. She rubbed it over a flannel, then scrubbed herself everywhere. Scrubbed the makeup from her face, a stranger's sweat from her skin, and finally the stickiness from her legs, groin, and bum. She stood there, watching her filth swirl down the drain, then rinsed the flannel and repeated the whole process two more times, until parts of her skin were raw. She scrubbed her scalp under the cold water, shivering as she rinsed once, then twice, then a third time. She wanted to wash again but she could hear John tapping on the door. "Molly? You alright?" 

"Almost done,"she called, breathless with cold. She let herself get attacked by the icy spray a minute longer before turning it off and wrapping herself in a thin towel. She opened the door, still shivering, and found John still standing there. 

He frowned. "Molly, for fuck's sake, your lips are blue." After grabbing a second towel, he shoved her into his old bedroom, closing the door behind him and covering her head with the dry towel. She shivered and let him rub her hair until it was no longer dripping, then run it over her legs and arms. He pulled the wet towels off and pushed her, naked, into the bed and under the covers. 

He opened her suitcase and found a pair of fuzzy pyjama pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. Pulling off his own t-shirt, he climbed under the covers and helped her into the pants before crawling all the way in and wrapping his arms around her. 

Molly burrowed into his warm skin as John yelped. He rubbed her bare back, and held her close, willing some of his body heat to travel to her. "What happened tonight?" 

She was still shivering against him. "Made a mistake," she murmured through clenched teeth. "Acted like a complete…" She swallowed, shuddering. "And then suddenly I realized what I was doing, and I wanted him off but…"

John's hands paused for a second. "But he didn't stop?" He was holding his breath. _Please, not again._

Molly shook her head. "It wasn't like that. I just waited it out." 

John held in his exasperated sigh. "Why??" He asked, incredulity coloring his voice. 

Molly considered this. Her shivering was finally subsiding, John's body heat easing her rigid muscles into submission. She yawned widely. "I dunno. I'd already come. Can't expect him to quit at that point."

John sighed. "Why not? Men do it all the time. Come first, leave her unsatisfied."

Molly opened her eyes long enough to roll them. "S'different. You can't keep going after." She rubbed her face against John's shoulder before resting it in his broad chest. She rubbed at his chest hair absently. "He migh' notta listened," she slurred. "Too far gone."

John kissed her head sadly. "You're an idiot. Go to sleep."

\-------  
Early the next morning, a weight on the bed woke her up. She opened a bleary eye to see Sherlock arching a tentatively amused eyebrow. "Whaa?" She groaned, squinting against the dull ache in her head. He flicked his eyes to her breasts, one of which was being lightly cupped by short, strong fingers. Slightly panicked, she followed the hand back to its source and then flopped back down.

"Oh, thank Christ," she murmured. 

John stirred, stil asleep, and cuddled closer, squeezing Molly's breast and running a thumb absently over her nipple, teasing it hard. He slotted his hips against her bum. "Hel-lo!" Molly exclaimed, freezing. 

Sherlock intervened. "John!" He grunted, eyes still closed, flexing his hips forward to rub himself against Molly's bum and burrowing his face in her hair. Sherlock smacked him. "John, for god's sake. Wake up!"

John's eyes opened in confusion and he looked from Sherlock to the mass of brown hair in front of him. Suddenly, he realized what was happening and scrambled back, sitting up and holding a pillow over his lap. 

Sherlock smirked. "Bit late for that now, don't you think?" 

John's face was hot. "Oh my god, Sherlock, I'm so --"

"Don't apologize to _me_ , you daft git." He paused, narrowing his eyes. "Unless you two really did shag last night."

"No!!" John looked aghast. 

Molly sat up, indignant. "You don't have to sound so offended at the idea." She gestured at his crotch. "You seemed perfectly willing a minute ago."

John sputtered. "I was _sleeping_! You know what, fuck you both," he said, as Molly and Sherlock shook with laughter. His eyes dipped to her bouncing breasts and Sherlock bent over in a new fit of giggles. "Do you mind putting a shirt on, please?" 

Molly snickered but obliged, reaching across John for the shirt he'd gotten out for her the night before. He looked determinedly at the ceiling as Sherlock giggled immoderately. Molly pulled it over her head. "You've seen them before," she reasoned. 

John's jaw was tight, and he still wasn't looking at them. Sherlock smirked. "Not while he's had an erection." 

John huffed angrily, and reached for his own shirt. "Sorry, Molly. For the ... touching."

"That's touching!" Molly teased, and both boys rolled their eyes. "It's fine. You stopped." She shrugged.

John shifted irritably. "Would you have woken me, if Sherlock hadn't?" 

Molly scoffed, "Of course I would have!"

Sherlock eyed her shrewdly. "You froze up when he started rutting against you." 

John sighed in exasperation at the phrasing but let it go. Molly bit her lip, not responding, but didn't flinch when John touched her shoulder. "It's the fight, flight, or freeze response, remember?"

Molly frowned. "But I wasn't in danger." She trusted John, knew he was good. "You wouldn't hurt me."

John shrugged. "It's a panic response. Doesn't always make sense, does it? We can try upping your meds, see if it helps. Or I could put you in touch with Ella." He adjusted his pants, sliding out of bed and fetching his discarded T-shirt to slide it over his head. "What time is it?" He stretched, yawning widely. 

It was half eleven, and Sherlock needed John for the case. He looked hesitantly at Molly. "Donovan wanted you to contact her when you woke up." He seemed a little hurt to have been faced with proof of Molly's lie, and a little embarrassed about having to let her know he knew. 

Molly nodded, busying herself with making the bed. John and Sherlock left the flat after a flurry of showers and hastily-slurped tea, leaving Molly to mope around the flat alone. She tapped out a message to Sally. 

_I'm up. How'd the kidnapping case go?_

Molly started folding her clothes as she waited for a reply. 

_Got the kid, but not the kidnappers. How was the night out?_

Molly winced. What had Sherlock told her? 

_Pretty awful. Bollocksed things up with the boys. Headed back to my flat in a bit._

_Want some company? I was just about to grab some lunch. I could bring it to the flat and we could catch up a bit._

Gratitude filled Molly. _Sounds great. See you in an hour?_

Exhaling her relief, Molly fixed a cup of tea and sipped it as she packed. She desperately wanted to stay. Being at Baker Street had meant safety and comfort and companionship. She couldn't bear the thought of going back to her lonely flat and facing it all again. _It's your own stupid, selfish fault._

Molly pulled her hair back into a ponytail, slid on her shoes, and patted the doorway fondly on her way out.

\--------------------

The taxi ride was far too short. When they pulled up, Sally was leaning against the doorway, holding a paper bag that Molly sincerely hoped contained something her queasy stomach would find palatable. 

Sally strode over as Molly climbed out, taking one of the bags from the cabbie and holding her hand out. "Keys," she demanded. 

Molly handed them over reluctantly. Honestly, she wanted to stand here and collect her thoughts a bit, but Sally was all business. She unlocked the front door efficiently and strode through it confidently. "Keep up, Hooper." 

Molly sighed in defeat and dragged herself through the doorway, locking it behind her. She followed Sally up the two flights of stairs to her flat, getting slower as they approached the door. Sally unlocked it swiftly, opened the door, and looked at Molly, tilting her head toward the door in invitation. 

Heart thudding against her ribs, Molly slowly stepped in the door, jumping slightly at the sound of Sally closing and locking the door. She turned around, looking at the wall she could still feel herself getting pushed against. Remembered the feeling of his slimy tongue in her mouth. She held her arm, remembering how he had wrenched it behind her, ignoring her cries for him to stop. 

Closing her eyes, Molly swallowed hard, trying to banish the sensations that were overwhelming her. She reminded herself that she was fine, she was safe, but she didn't truly believe it. She swallowed again, trying to regain her composure in front of Sally.

Sally set the paper bag on the table audibly, let her footsteps fa more loudly than normal as she approached Molly. She laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, squeezing firmly when her touch was not rejected, and letting it linger for a few moments before dropping it. "This part sucks," Sally said fervently. "It's OK to go ahead and replay it in your head. That actually helped me a lot. After I stopped fighting it, anyway." She looked around. "Christ, I can't imagine getting attacked in your own home. Fucking awful."

Molly barked and laugh. "You know what I appreciate about you, Sally? You're not trying to tell me that everything is fine."

Sally snorted. "Of course you're not fine. Why the fuck would you be fine? You'll get there, for sure. You deal with much worse than this on a daily basis, the worst of the horrors. So yeah, eventually, you will get on with life and be happy and everything won't be so fucking hard on the time. But, it's going to take time."

Molly round. "I've been fucking things up a little."

Sally chuckled. "Girl, from the little bit I got out of Sherlock last night, you been fucking things up a lot." She looked at Molly thoughtfully. "You know, it's funny, it took me a long time to work myself out, but I always thought that part of that was because I never told a soul. Not for months and months. Plus I was so young. And I really thought that it would be different for you, because you have John and Sherlock, and you're a professional and you have your life figured out. Maybe that's not how it works. Maybe when you go through something terrible, things are just going to be terrible for a while, no matter what."

Molly wasn't sure whether that ought to be a comforting or not. But it was probably true. She had a lot of advantages. "I feel like I start each day with a tank of energy, and sometimes I can spend it on seeming like I have my shit together for a while. Like if I go to work, I can seem fine. But then by the end of the day, my ability to hold it together is just shot. And I'm not sure that every day I wake up with the same size tank." Sally waited patiently as Molly thought over her words for a minute. "I don't know, it's a stupid analogy. Most of the time, I feel terrible, and sometimes I want to make myself feel worse. Or feel bad about something else."

Sally nodded as she unloaded soups, breadsticks, and a big salad onto the table. "Yeah, that's familiar. Really, it's not even been two weeks. Maybe talk to John, see if you need to tinker with your dosage? You're going through a lot."

Molly poured some vegetable beef soup into a bowl. "Already did, I doubled my meds this morning. Guess we'll see." She sipped some broth off the spoon. "He wants to refer me to a therapist."

Sally dipped a breadstick into her bowl and munched it thoughtfully. "Well, I really resisted going, but at the end of the day, being inside my mind suddenly felt like being inside a fucking jungle, and I needed a guide."

Molly nearly choked on a kernel of corn in her haste to respond. "God, YES. That is exactly it. I don't feel at home in my own brain right now. I don't feel safe."

Sally took a swallow. "You think you might hurt yourself." She said it conversationally, as though she didn't find this weird or alarming.

Molly cocked her head, trying to think of how to articulate what she meant. "Kind of? I'm not suicidal, not at all. And I'm not, like, cutting myself or anything. But sometimes thoughts or feelings take me over and they feel like they're coming from somewhere else. Like they're not my thoughts." She twisted her ponytail around her index finger, yanking on it nervously. "That sounds really psychotic. I'm not hallucinating, it's just like…"

"… Intrusive thoughts," Sally supplied. "That's what my therapist always called them."

Molly actually smiled, she was so relieved. "Yes, exactly like that. Intrusive thoughts. And sometimes I ... I dunno, sort of _wake up_ from them, and realize that I'm acting crazy."

Sally rinsed her bowl in the sink. "Listen, you're a grown woman and you'll do what you think is best. But it's a hell of a lot easier to get through this with someone who knows what the fuck they're doing helping you." 

Sally closed the soup containers and put them in the refrigerator, along with the salad. "I have to go check in on Sherlock and Greg, see where they are with finding our kidnapper. I'll let Sherlock know you're settled in."

Molly hovered near the doorway. "Thank you, Sally. For lunch, and for coming with me. I think I'd still be at the bottom of the stairs if you hadn't been here."

Sally laughed, nodded, and let herself out.

Molly locked the deadbolt behind her, and stood in the kitchen uncertainly for a moment. She glanced, for the first time, at the living room. She thought about how Sally had marched right up to the apartment, not given her fear time to stop her. 

She opened a cupboard door and pulled out a tumbler, then dropped a couple of ice cubes in it. She dug a dusty bottle of whisky from the back of a cupboard and poured herself a generous measure. Carrying the glass and the bottle into the living room, she sat down on the sofa where she had been violated. And she remembered.

The heat of the whiskey burned in her chest and she felt. Felt herself being shoved, breached, taunted, pinned. She remembered her humiliation, and her disgust, and her terror. She remembered all of it as she finished one, two, three glasses of whisky, and then her memories started to soften and fragment, and she couldn't focus on any of them long enough to piece them together.

She felt confused, and scared, and lost. Hugging her legs, chin resting on her knees, she reached for her phone, and tapped out a message to John.

_Send me Ella's info?_

Today was awful. And probably tomorrow would be too. But she wanted to believe that it wasn't forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for hanging in there! I know this wasn't a particularly _enjoyable_ read, but I hope some part of it resonated with each of you. --BK


End file.
